Tales of a Virgin Madame
by SimmeringGreen
Summary: The story of an 18th century English Madame who has been accused of everything from witchcraft and arson to murder. Will she find a way to prove her innocence, find the guilty party, and maybe even find love in the form of a bull-headed Scottish Highlander?


**Much like **Je Cours** this story sprouted from no where! I can't promise to be factual, or historically accurate, but I will try my best. I only ask that any readers that come across this work reviews it and allows for a nice suspension of disbelief. **

...and we're off!

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**Prologue**

It was a crisp April morning. The chill was just enough to bite the skin, but the sky was clear - a welcome change from the usual fog and mist that seemed to perpetually hang over the country. The sun was weak and watery, but it shone dutifully on.

For such a small town, a large crowd had gathered about the stage where punishments were doled out. The people moved and murmured among themselves, bustling against each other like sheep trapped in a pen. There was a current of excitement, and a low hum of tension that strung through the crowd, attracting stray townsmen and women to the mass.

A somber man with a long, thin face and deep set coal-like eyes parted the crowd. He held his thin, lanky figure up with a sort of cold grace that clings to the cloak of a hard man. Cruelty marked his heavy brow, and his thin lips were held flat with sternness. His spine was rigid, and every step that he took was calculated. His long, spindly fingers were pale and bony, and clutched the broad end of a lead-tipped whip. He looked neither to the left nor to the right, neither up nor down. His gaze focused solely on the post that boasted a rusting iron ring that was nailed rather crudely to the upper portion of it with an intensity that should have set the wood on fire. The crowd did not bustle for fear of touching him. Each person stood stock still in their place, their jaws locked and silent.

It was neither the man nor the lead tips that dragged faintly through the dust that sent a tremor of excitement through the crowd, however. It was the petite woman who followed him. She was as beautiful as the legends had told. Her neck was long and graceful, ending in pretty collarbones. Her face was hearth shaped with youth, and marked by a high brow and high cheekbones. Her aristocratic nose was slender and straight, and she had a dangerous, siren-like curve to her plump pink lips. Her skin was smooth and pale, with a rose dusting across her cheekbones and her nose. Her eyes were wide and doe-like, but the deep chocolate amber glinted with a hint of secrecy and mischievousness. Her mahogany hair was thick, and tumbled down her back in curls that were largely scandalous, but what more could one expect from a murderess, and a whore? She walked like she had iron in her spine and steel in her core. Her delicate hands, that were bound tightly before her were clasped gently before her bodice. Her skirts swished gently about her, giving a decidedly innocent air to the sensuality of her walk. She kept her chin up, and her gaze firm as she followed in the man's wake, not wearing even the slightest look of guilt for the conviction of her charges.

She ascended the steps onto the stage with no difficulty and turned and faced the crowd as her charges were read to her.

"For the murder of ye husband, Jacob Black, ye will receive 100 lashes," the somber man read sternly.

"For ye adultery, ye will receive 40 lashes," he continued, his bony fingers shifting against the paper he read from.

"For ye arson, ye will receive 40 lashes. And for ye thievery, ye will receive 15 lashes." The man rolled up the paper, and tucked it away in his vestments. "Ye will receive 195 lashes. Ye will receive 100 today and 95 upon the next Friday. Have ye a plea for mercy?"

The crowd held its breath. Surely she would make an appeal to the public, and of course they would pardon her. She was naught but a woman, she had little sense.

Suddenly there was a commotion in the middle of a crowd as a young, tall man came forward. His chest was broad and strong, and he stood a good head and shoulders over most of the men in the crowd. His hair was a flaming coppery red, and his eyes were a flashing emerald green. His jaw was strong and set.

"I will take the lass's lashes for her," he said with the marked lilt of a Scottish accent.

"Do ye agree, woman?"

The murderess looked straight into the eyes of the Highlander who stood before her, ignoring the pleading eyes and the ruggedly handsome face.

"No," she replied after a long moment had passed. The silence vibrated with anticipation for what she would say next.

"It would be most unbecoming for a Highlander to give his skin for a mere Sassenach."

Her lips curved in a smile that said everything and nothing all at once. The blood drained from the Highlander's face as he watched the man turn the murderess around and slice through her bodice, exposing her bare back. Her hair was tied up into a severe bun with a leather cord, and her bound hands were lifted and secured to the metal hoop that swung from the post.

Even on her knees, tied to a whipping post, with the expanse of her pale, smooth back on full view for everyone in the crowd, the murderess retained an air of regality. Her neck stayed straight, and her forehead was only gently pressed against the post for strength. The only thing that gave away the fear that coursed sharply through her blood was her rapid breathing, a rise and fall that could barely be seen from the vantage point of even the closest crowd member.

The man rose his whip above his head, and brought it firmly down against the side of the whipping post. Splinters flew off, and even the crowd flinched with the force of its impact. The mass bustled now with discomfort, like sheep who have finally realized that some injustice was being done. The Highlander stood stock still in the midst of them, his eyes boring into the woman's back, and his fists clenched tightly into themselves. His jaw was set, and his face had paled considerably, but he moved not an inch.

The somber man raised his whip above his head once more, and uttered a prayer for her soul in a voice just loud enough to make itself heard at the very edges of the crowd.

"If ye shall die beneath my whip, Marie Swan, may the Lord have mercy on your soul."

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**Quite an entrance, am I right?** **Well I'm off to study!**

**Read, Review and Repeat!**


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